My Autobiography Page 8

  During meals there would be a long line of stewards in the kitchen filling their orders. But by the time Sydney’s turn came he had forgotten his order, so he would have to go to the end of the line again. Sydney said that for the first few days while everyone was finishing their dessert he was serving soup.

  Sydney stayed home until his money was spent. However, he was booked for a second trip and again they advanced him thirty-five shillings, which he gave to Mother. But this did not last long. After three weeks we were scraping the bottom of the barrel, and there was another three weeks to go before Sydney’s return. Although Mother continued working at her sewing machine, what she earned was not enough to keep us going. Consequently we were in another crisis.

  But I was resourceful. Mother had a pile of old clothes, and, as it was Saturday morning, I suggested that I should try and sell them in the market place. Mother was a little embarrassed, and said they were quite worthless. Nevertheless, I wrapped them up in an old sheet and wended my way to Newington Butts and there laid my ignoble congeries on the pavement – a drab and sorry sight – then stood in the gutter and shouted: ‘Here!’ – picking up an old shirt, then a pair of old corsets – ‘what will you give me? – a shilling, sixpence, threepence, twopence?’ Not even at a penny could I make a sale. People would stop, look astonished, then laugh and go on their way. I began to feel embarrassed, especially when the occupants of a jeweller’s shop opposite began looking at me through the shop window. However, nothing deterred me. Eventually a pair of gaiters that did not look so depressing sold for sixpence. But the longer I stayed the uneasier I felt. Later the gentleman from the jeweller’s shop came over to me and asked, in a thick Russian accent, how long I had been in business. In spite of his solemn face, I detected humour in his remark and told him I had just started. He walked slowly back to his two grinning partners, who were looking through the shop window at me. That was enough! I thought it time to wrap up my wares and return home. When I told Mother I had sold a pair of gaiters for sixpence, she was indignant. ‘They should have brought more,’ she said. ‘They were a beautiful pair!’

  At this juncture we were not too concerned about paying rent; that problem was easily solved by being out for the day when the rent man called, and, as our belongings were of little value, it would cost more than we owed to cart them away. However, we moved back to 3 Pownall Terrace.

  At this time I came to know an old man and his son who worked in a mews at the back of Kennington Road. They were travelling toy-makers who came from Glasgow, making toys and selling them as they wandered from town to town. They were free and unencumbered and I envied them. Their profession needed little capital. With as small an investment as a shilling they could start in business. They would collect shoe-boxes, which every shoe-shop was only too pleased to give them, and cork sawdust in which grapes were packed which they also got gratis. Their initial outlay consisted only in the purchase of a pennyworth of glue, a pennyworth of wood, twopence worth of twine, a pennyworth of Christmas coloured paper and three twopenny balls of coloured tinsel. For a shilling they could make seven dozen boats and sell them for a penny apiece. The sides were cut from shoe-boxes and were sewn on to a cardboard base, the smooth surface was covered with glue, then poured over with cork sawdust. The masts were rigged with coloured tinsel, and blue, yellow and red flags were stuck on the topmast and on the end of the booms, fore and aft. A hundred or more of these little toy boats, with their coloured tinsel and flags, was a gay and festive sight that attracted customers, and they were easy to sell.

  As a result of our acquaintance I began helping them to make boats, and very soon I was familiar with their craft. When they left our neighbourhood I went into business for myself. With a limited capital of sixpence, and at the cost of blistered hands through cutting up cardboard, I was able to turn out three dozen boats within a week.

  But there was not enough space in our garret for Mother’s work and my boat-making. Besides, Mother complained of the odour of boiling glue, and that the glue pot was a constant menace to her linen blouses, which, incidentally, crowded most of the space in the room. As my contribution was less than Mother’s, her work took precedence and my craft was abandoned.

  We had seen little of Grandfather during this time. For the past year he had not been doing too well. His hands were swollen with gout, which made it difficult for him to work at his shoe-repairing. In the past he had helped Mother when he could afford with a couple of bob or so. Sometimes he would cook dinner for us, a wonderful bargoo stew composed of Quaker Oats and onions boiled in milk with salt and pepper. On a wintry night it was our constitutional base to withstand the cold.

  As a boy I thought Grandpa a dour, fractious old man who was always correcting me either about my manners or my grammar. Because of these small encounters, I had grown to dislike him. Now he was in the infirmary with rheumatism, and Mother would go every visiting day to see him. These visits were profitable, because she usually returned with a bag full of fresh eggs, quite a luxury in our recessional period. When unable to go herself, she would send me. I was always surprised when I found Grandpa most agreeable and happy to see me. He was quite a favourite with the nurses. He told me in later life that he would joke with them, saying that in spite of his crippling rheumatism not all his machinery was impaired. This sort of rodomontade amused the nurses. When his rheumatism allowed him, he worked in the kitchen, whence came our eggs. On visiting days, he was usually in bed, and from his bedside cabinet would surreptitiously hand me a large bag of them, which I quickly stowed in my sailor’s tunic before departing.

  For weeks we lived on eggs, dished up in every form, boiled, fried and custardized. In spite of Grandpa’s assurance that the nurses were his friends and knew more or less what was going on, I was always apprehensive when leaving the hospital ward with those eggs, terrified of slipping on the beeswax polished floor, or that my tumorous bulk would be apprehended. Curiously enough, when I was ready to leave, the nurses were always conspicuous by their absence. It was a sorry day for us when Grandpa was rid of his rheumatism and left the hospital.

  Now six weeks had elapsed and still Sydney had not returned. At first this did not alarm Mother, but after another week’s delay she wrote to the offices of the Donovan and Castle Line and received information that he had been put ashore at Cape Town for treatment of rheumatism. This news worried Mother and affected her health. Still she continued working at her sewing machine and I was fortunate in obtaining a little work by giving a few dancing lessons to a family after school for the sum of five shillings a week.

  About this time the McCarthys came to live in Kennington Road. Mrs McCarthy had been an Irish comedienne and was a friend of Mother’s. She was married to Walter McCarthy, a chartered accountant. But when Mother was obliged to give up the stage we lost sight of Mr and Mrs McCarthy and not until seven years later did we meet them again, when they came to live at Walcott Mansions in the select part of Kennington Road.

  Their son, Wally McCarthy, and I were the same age. As little children, we used to play at grown-ups, pretending we were vaudevillians, smoking our imaginary cigars and driving in our imaginary pony and trap, much to the amusement of our parents.

  Since the McCarthys had come to live in Walcott Mansions, Mother had rarely seen them, but Wally and I had formed an inseparable friendship. As soon as I was through with school I would race home to Mother to find out if she needed any errands done, then race up to the McCarthys’. We would play theatre at the back of Walcott Mansions. As the director, I always gave myself the villain parts, knowing instinctively they were more colourful than the hero. We would play until Wally’s supper-time. Usually I was invited. At mealtimes I had an ingratiating way of making myself available. There were occasions, however, when my manoeuvring did not work and I would reluctantly return home. Mother was always happy to see me and would prepare something for me, fried bread in dripping or one of Grandfather’s eggs and a cup of tea. She would read to me or we woul
d sit together at the window and she would amuse me by making remarks about the pedestrians as they passed by. She would invent stories about them. If it were a young man with a breezy, bobbing gait she would say: ‘There goes Mr Hopand-scotch. He’s on his way to place a bet. If he’s lucky today he’s going to buy a second-hand tandem for him and his girl.’

  Then a man would pass slowly, moping along. ‘Hm, he’s going home to have stew and parsnips for dinner, which he hates.’

  Then someone with an air of superiority would walk by. ‘Now there’s a refined young man, but at the moment he’s worried about the hole in the seat of his pants.’

  Then another with a fast gait would streak past. ‘That gentleman has just taken Eno’s!’ And so she would go on, sending me into gales of laughter.

  Another week had gone by and not a word from Sydney. Had I been less a boy and more sensitive to Mother’s anxiety I might have realized what was impending. I might have noticed that for several days she had been sitting listlessly at the window, had neglected to tidy up the room, had grown unusually quiet. I might have been concerned when the firm of shirtmakers began finding fault with her work and stopped giving it to her, and when they took away her sewing machine for arrears in payments, and when the five shillings I earned from dancing lessons suddenly ended; through all this I might have noticed that Mother remained indifferent, apathetic.

  Mrs McCarthy suddenly died. She had been ailing for some time, and her health rapidly deteriorated until she passed on. Immediately, thoughts invaded my mind: how wonderful if Mr McCarthy married Mother – Wally and I being such good friends. Besides, it would be an ideal solution to all Mother’s problems.

  Soon after the funeral I spoke to Mother about it: ‘You should make it your business to see a lot of Mr McCarthy. I bet he’d like to marry you.’

  Mother smiled wanly. ‘Give the poor man a chance,’ she said.

  ‘If you were all dressed up and made yourself attractive, as you used to be, he would. But you don’t make any effort; all you do is to sit around this filthy room and look awful.’

  Poor Mother. How I regret those words. I never realized that she was weak from malnutrition. Yet the next day, by some super-human effort, she had tidied up the room.

  The school’s summer holidays were on, so I thought I would go early to the McCarthys’ – anything to get away from the wretchedness of our garret. They had invited me to stay for lunch, but I had an intuition that I should return home to Mother. When I reached Pownall Terrace, I was stopped at the gate by some children of the neighbourhood.

  ‘Your mother’s gone insane,’ said a little girl.

  The words were like a slap in the face.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I mumbled.

  ‘It’s true,’ said another. ‘She’s been knocking at all our doors, giving away pieces of coal, saying they were birthday presents for the children. You can ask my mother.’

  Without hearing more, I ran up the pathway, through the open door of the house and leaped up the stairs and opened the door of our room. I stood a moment to catch my breath, intensely scrutinizing her. It was a summer’s afternoon and the atmosphere was close and oppressive. Mother was sitting as usual at the window. She turned slowly and looked at me, her face pale and tormented.

  ‘Mother!’ I almost shouted.

  ‘What is it?’ she said listlessly.

  Then I ran and fell on my knees and buried my face in her lap, and burst into uncontrollable weeping.

  ‘There, there,’ she said gently, stroking my head. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘You’re not well,’ I cried between sobs.

  She spoke reassuringly: ‘Of course I am.’

  She seemed so vague, so preoccupied.

  ‘No! No! They say you’ve been going to all the houses and –’ I could not finish, but continued sobbing.

  ‘I was looking for Sydney,’ she said weakly; ‘they’re keeping him away from me.’

  Then I knew that what the children had said was true.

  ‘Oh, Mummy, don’t talk like that! Don’t! Don’t!’ I sobbed. ‘Let me get you a doctor.’

  She continued, stroking my head: ‘The McCarthys know where he is, and they’re keeping him away from me.’

  ‘Mummy, please let me get a doctor,’ I cried. I got up and went towards the door.

  She looked after me with a pained expression. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To get a doctor. I won’t be long.’

  She never answered, but looked anxiously after me. Quickly I rushed downstairs to the landlady. ‘I’ve got to get a doctor at once, Mother’s not well!’

  ‘We’ve already sent for him,’ the landlady said.

  The parish doctor was old and grumpy and after hearing the landlady’s story, which was similar to that of the children, he made a perfunctory examination of Mother. ‘Insane. Send her to the infirmary,’ he said.

  The doctor wrote out a paper; besides other things it said she was suffering from malnutrition, which the doctor explained to me, saying that she was undernourished.

  ‘She’ll be better off and get proper food there,’ said the landlady by way of comforting me.

  She helped to gather up Mother’s clothes and to dress her Mother obeyed like a child; she was so weak, her will seemed to have deserted her. As we left the house, the neighbours and children were gathered at the front gate, looking on with awe.

  The infirmary was about a mile away. As we ambled along Mother staggered like a drunken woman from weakness, veerign from side to side as I supported her. The stark, afternoon sun seemed to ruthlessly expose our misery. People who passed us must have thought Mother was drunk, but to me they were like phantoms in a dream. She never spoke, but seemed to know where we were going and to be anxious to get there. On the way I tried to reassure her, and she smiled, too weak to talk.

  When at last we arrived at the infirmary a young doctor took her in charge. After reading the note, he said kindly: ‘All right, Mrs Chaplin, come this way.’

  She submitted obediently. But as the nurses started to lead her away she turned suddenly with a painful realization that she was leaving me behind.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ I said, feigning cheerfulness.

  They led her away looking anxiously back at me. When she had gone, the doctor turned. ‘And what will become of you, young man?’

  Having had enough of workhouse schools, I replied politely: ‘Oh, I’ll be living with my aunt.’

  As I walked from the hospital towards home, I could feel only a numbing sadness. Yet I was relieved, for I knew that Mother would be better off in the hospital than sitting alone in that dark room with nothing to eat. But that heart-breaking look as they led her away I shall never forget. I thought of all her endearing ways, her gaiety, her sweetness and affection; of that weary little figure that used to come down the streets looking tired and preoccupied until she saw me charging towards her; how she would change immediately and become all smiling as I looked eagerly inside the paper bag she carried for those little niceties that she always brought home for Sydney and me. Even that morning she had saved some candy – had offered it to me while I wept in her lap.

  I did not go straight home, I could not. I turned in the direction of the Newington Butts market and looked in shop windows until late afternoon. When I returned to the garret it looked reproachfully empty. On a chair was a wash-tub, half-filled with water. Two of my shirts and a chemise were soaking in it. I began to investigate; there was no food in the cupboard except a small half-filled package of tea. On the mantelpiece was her purse, in which I found three halfpence, some keys and several pawn tickets. On the corner of the table was the candy she had offered me. Then I broke down and wept again.

  Emotionally exhausted, I slept soundly that night. In the morning I awoke to a haunting emptiness in the room; the sun streaming in on the floor seemed to heighten Mother’s absence. Later the landlady came up and said that I could stay on there until she let the room and that if I needed
food I had only to ask for it. I thanked her and told her that Sydney would pay all our debts when he returned. But I was too shy to ask for food.

  I did not go to see Mother the next day as promised. I could not; it would have been too upsetting. But the landlady saw the doctor, who said that she had already been transferred to Cane Hill asylum. This melancholy news relieved my conscience, for Cane Hill was twenty miles away and I had no means of getting there. Sydney would soon return and then we could see her together. For the first few days I neither saw nor spoke to anyone I knew.

  I would steal out in the early morning and stay out all day; I always managed to get food somewhere – besides, missing a meal was no hardship. One morning the landlady caught me creeping downstairs and asked if I had had my breakfast. I shook my head. ‘Then come on,’ she said in her gruff way.

  I kept away from the McCarthys because I did not want them to know about Mother. Like a fugitive, I kept out of everyone’s way.

  *

  It was one week since Mother had gone away, and I had settled into a precarious habit of living which I neither lamented nor enjoyed. My major concern was the landlady, for if Sydney did not return, sooner or later she would have to report me to the parish authorities and I would be sent again to Hanwell Schools. Thus I avoided her presence, even sleeping out occasionally.

  I fell in with some wood-choppers who worked in a mews at the back of Kennington Road, derelict-looking men who worked hard in a darkened shed and spoke softly in undertones, sawing and chopping wood all day, making it into halfpenny bundles. I would hang about the open door and watch them. They would take a block of wood a foot square and chop it into inch slices and put these slices together and chop them into sticks. They chopped wood so rapidly that it fascinated me and made the job seem attractive. Very soon I was helping them. They bought their lumber from demolition contractors, and would cart it to their shed, stack it up, which took at least a day, then saw the wood one day and chop the next. On Friday and Saturday they would sell the firewood. But the selling of it did not interest me; it was more clubby working together in the shed.